


Estevez and the Acceptable, Tolerable, Not Too Bad, Okay Continued Living Existence

by reptilianraven



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen, turning denial into fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 00:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16074332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reptilianraven/pseuds/reptilianraven
Summary: Seconds before he’s about to stand to leave, his phone pings. There’s text from a number he doesn’t recognize.estevezi hope this is ur numberWho is this?who are you firstis this estevezdetective estevezi never got your first nameis it detectiveheyare youignoringthesetextsHEYTHIS IS LYDIAFor real?-Wherein Ex-Detective Joel Estevez does not die.





	Estevez and the Acceptable, Tolerable, Not Too Bad, Okay Continued Living Existence

**Author's Note:**

> Esteves’ first name here is Joel because i remember reading Joel Esteves somewhere but i cannot for the life of me remember where...

Here’s the thing they never show in the action movies:

Detective Joel Estevez sits in his car. His car, not a patrol car. Because he got fired. Right. So it’s not Detective Estevez anymore. Just Joel Estevez, sitting in his car, parked outside the hospital where he just dumped a Dirk Gently into the ER. Joel didn’t really know what to say to explain why the guy had two arrows sticking out of him, but thankfully there were more important questions to be asked, like what Gently’s blood type was for a transfusion. Joel didn’t know the answer so he left and didn’t feel too beat up about it. He barely knew the guy. Joel figures that if Gently has people pulling strings strong enough to get him out of police custody, he’ll have people to figure all the medical stuff for him too. There’s also the others. Black and Brotzman. Gently has people. Joel has—

Well.

He has a car. He’s sitting in his car. He’s sitting in his car and he’s ignoring how it feels wrong. 

The passenger seat is empty. 

Joel has a car, but he doesn’t have his partner. Or a job. Or a bottle to drown all these truths in. Or a dog who’s actually a girl that he needs to help because it’s the right thing to do. He’s got nothing, because it’s all over. 

The boss battle is done, the pieces are falling into place, and, slowly, the adrenaline disappears, leaving Joel behind.

Here’s the thing they never show in the action movies—because it’s boring and pretty goddamn pathetic, because, Jesus, he’s just sitting here, hands on the wheel, frozen, because _now what_ , because the story is over but he’s still here—they never show you this: 

what happens after.

-

Joel goes home because that’s what people do when things end. He goes to sleep because that’s what people do when they’re tired. He wakes up because that’s what people do when they go to sleep. He gets up because it’s a habit. He ends up laying on his couch, staring up at the ceiling because his habits don’t really have anything to hinge on anymore. He stays there because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

There’s a feeling in his chest. Without the constant pull of movement, it builds and builds, nowhere to go. A buzzing kind of static. Inactivity never sat well with him, and now he’s surrounded by it. He stares at the ceiling, willing it to produce some kind of easy answer, but, just like him, it does nothing.

Zim would’ve called him out for brooding.

There’s a part of him that’s telling him to just go on as normal, even if nothing will ever be quite normal again. He could go back to the police department. There’s nothing there for him anymore, both figuratively and literally. Doyle, the fucking bastard, made him pack his shit up on that same day. But it’s the only place he knows, and Joel is desperate for—for _something_.

Seconds before he’s about to stand to leave, his phone pings. There’s text from a number he doesn’t recognize. 

_estevez_  
_i hope this is ur number_

_Who is this?_

_who are you first_  
_is this estevez_  
_detective estevez_  
_i never got your first name_  
_is it detective_  
_hey_  
_are you_  
_ignoring_  
_these_  
_texts_  
_HEY_  
_THIS IS LYDIA_

_For real?_

_YEAH UGH_

He gets an image. It’s a selfie of Lydia Spring in what looks to be an airport, her hand gesturing to her face, a quizzical eyebrow raised. She looks decidedly human, he thinks, smiling softly as he types out a reply.

_Yeah, this is Estevez._  
_How did you get this number?_

_farah_

_Ah. Alright._  
_What’s up? Are you okay?_

_yeah im fine_  
_im otw to canttellyou for my safety but im alive and not a dog anymore so it’s all chill_  
_i just wanted to thank you_  
_in all the chaos i dont think i was able to_

_Hey, don’t mention it. I was just doing my job._

_no u werent_  
_at least not in the end bits_  
_i was in the office next door when u got fired lol_  
_i was also in your office the entire time you and your partner were trying to find me_  
_and you guys never gave up no matter how weird things got_  
_you didnt give up even after_  
_you know_  
_and im sorry about your partner_  
_i wish i could thank him too but i cant so im thanking you_  
_you had to put up with so much shit but you just kept rolling with the punches_  
_other people wouldve let the case go cold_  
_or wouldve stopped when things got hard_  
_but you didnt_  
_and im alive because of that_  
_thank you_

Joel takes a deep breath. His eyes are watering. His chest feels tight. Typical. He manages to keep it mostly together during grief, during active gunfire, during whatever soul swapping magic fuckery went down that still makes his head hurt to think about, but here he is right on the edge of falling apart completely because a sixteen year old is telling him he did a good job. He needs a drink. Or maybe a hug. But he’s an ex-cop in his thirties, so one of those things is a lot easier to get than the other. 

_It was no problem._  
_Okay, no, it was a lot of problems. But I’m glad it all worked out with you safe._  
_Zim would be glad too._

_okay_  
_what are you gonna do now?_

He wishes he knew.

_Don’t worry about that._

_cool i’ll worry about it_  
_but only a little_  
_in a way i hope will be helpful_

_What do you mean?_

_listen i gtg soon cuz the plane is boarding but_  
_and dont panic_  
_i also got access to your bank account details_  
_dont panic_  
_im not gonna rob you_  
_just left you a thank you gift_  
_i hope you have a good day detective estevez!_

Bewildered, Joel checks his bank account and he almost drops his phone. He blinks. Reads the numbers again. Blinks a second time just to be sure that his weird repressed feelings tears aren’t monumentally messing up his ability to count zeroes. Then, a little hysterically, he laughs. 

Fuckin’ billionaire teenagers. 

-

There’s something about a couple million dollars in his bank account that makes Joel think _fuck it_ about going back to the police department. There isn’t really use in going backwards. Forwards is the only way to go. 

So Joel goes to Zim’s funeral.

It’s a modest event. Not many people. There’s Zim’s sister and her husband, few guys from the department who avert their eyes when they see Joel, and a woman Joel remembers as Zim’s neighbor. Zim and Joel were alike in the sense that they were both married to their jobs. They didn’t have anything else to dedicate their time to. Joel had acquaintances, coworkers, a couple of short lived relationships, a dying potted aloe vera plant, but, aside from Zim himself, nobody Joel would really call a friend. Zim was practically a social butterfly compared to him, but it was fleeting. Zim was good to people in the way people forgot immediately. 

Zim’s sister gets Joel to say a few words and whatever he says feels clumsy. He calls him a good partner. A good friend. He talks about how he gave Zim shit for having a crappy first name like Howard. He makes fun of Zim probably way more than is appropriate for a funeral, but nobody stops him.

At the end of the day, there’s a fresh mound of earth covering up a hole in the ground. 

“Hey,” he tells the mound. “We did it, man. We saved Lydia Spring.”

There is no reply. 

“She says ‘thanks’, by the way,” Joel says to the air.

There’s nothing for him here anymore. 

He gets in his car and drives.

-

Joel was supposed to drive home, but he doesn’t. Or he does, but in the most winding path possible, edging around where he’s supposed to be going. Where he thinks he’s supposed to be going. He drives aimlessly for an hour before finally getting there.

But he can’t stay for long. The buzzing static crawls back into his chest, yearning. He can only take so much of it before he’s off again, listening to the faint rumble of the engine and whatever is playing on the radio. And he just keeps doing it. Day after day. The drives get longer. Further. More often. By the time he starts packing a bag for when he ends up staying the night elsewhere, he gives up all pretenses and admits to himself with only a second of cringing that, yeah, he’s soul searching. Or he’s something searching. 

He’s fine, he tells himself. He’s good. He’s buried his friend. He’s not living in the past. But the problem with that is that he’s back with his first problem. He doesn’t know what to do now. All the obvious answers feel wrong and maybe, he thinks, looking out at the passing scenery of the city whittling away, the wilderness of Skagit Valley creeping in, he’ll find an answer here.

A kitten finds him instead.

Parked outside a diner, the night on the horizon, it hops into his lap the moment he opens the door. A tiny, shivering, mewling handful of black fur. Vaguely, he remembers something about a kitten. A special kitten. Setting off a shark explosion. He looks down at the kitten. It bumps its head against his hand and he very tentatively pets it. There is _no way_ —

It’s just a coincidence.

Joel lets the coincidence into his car to wait while he buys dinner. He feeds the coincidence some of his burger. 

This is his life now, he figures. Directionless, drifting, and in the company of a cat. There are worse things.

Before he can spiral into what is probably a subdued existential crisis, his phone pings.

Again. And again. And again.

_ESTEVEZ_  
_HEY_  
_ANSWER NOW_  
_i hope this is still your number_  
_and that youre ALIVE_  
_ANSWER NOW_  
_NOW_  
_DETECTIVE ESTEVEZ_  
_D_  
_E_  
_T_  
_E_

_You text too fast._  
_Just Estevez now._  
_Fired, remember?_

_ARE U OK_

_What?_  
_Yeah, I’m fine. Alive, last I checked._  
_Why?_  
_What’s happening?_  
_Are you okay?_

_im fine theres just something going on_  
_not to me but to farah and her weird friends_  
_have you heard from any of them?_

_No._

_farah is WANTED by the FUCKING FBI_

What the hell. With a quick search, he confirms Lydia’s claim. Farah Black. Todd Brotzman. Amanda Brotzman. Person of interest, it says, bringing back memories of a grey interrogation room. 

_What the hell._

_RIGHT?????_

_What did she do?_

_NOTHING_  
_i mean i dont know it’s farah she probably couldve done something since she can do everything but she’d never get caught_  
_and she’d never do anything bad_  
_shes stopped answering my texts and calls_  
_she doesnt do that_  
_she wouldnt_  
_unless she really cant_  
_and the others are there too and like_  
_idk it just feels bad like something really bad is happening_  
_but i cant help her because i cant find her_  
_and i dont know what to do_

_Why tell me?_

_i didnt know who else to tell_

A beat. The silence in his car feels like the calm before the storm. The second before the pin drops. Joel is only halfway through thinking about what to say next before Lydia beats him to the punch. 

_hey_  
_i just got an idea_  
_i know what to do_  
_are you busy right now_

_No._  
_What are you getting at?_

_well_  
_you dont really have a job_  
_but youve got some cop skills_  
_and figuring things out skills_  
_and here i am with all this money and a friend im worried about_  
_are you following_  
_do you see where im going with this_

Staring up at his ceiling, hoping for an answer. Staring down at his phone, wondering, if maybe, just maybe, this is it. 

_I think you’re probably about to ask something really crazy._

Joel takes a breath.

_And I think that, if you do ask it, I might just say yes._

_knew it_

Lydia texts him several paragraphs of information. Farah’s last whereabouts, her last cash withdrawal, her nearby safehouses, what to say to make sure Farah doesn’t freak out and punch him on the off chance he does manage to get to her. Joel reads on and they text over details for a few more minutes before Lydia has to go. When he places his phone on the dashboard, he realizes his skin itching with an energy he’d been missing for a while. 

This is happening.

“So,” he says. The kitten perks up from its place on his lap, staring at him as he scratches it behind the ears. “Wanna go find and probably help a bunch of weirdo fugitives?” 

The ball of fur in his hands simply purrs. It’s enough of an answer for him.

“Alright, then,” he says. Joel places the kitten in the passenger seat and tries to ignore how that might be symbolic, or something. Right now, he’s got something better than symbolic. He’s got a job to do. The buzzing in his chest has settled, sharpened with purpose, a knife’s edge of decision. “Let’s do this.”

**Author's Note:**

> i originally wanted to make this go all the way through s2 (estevez finds his way to amanda and vogel and they end up as a team. estevez, armed with kittenshark, in wendimoor. “I hate everything about this.”) but i have midterms to study for. 
> 
> im [actualbird](http://actualbird.tumblr.com/) on tumblr :D


End file.
